


ever thought of calling when you've had a few?

by hamiltrashed



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dirty Talk, Drunk Dialing, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Phone Sex, Sex Toys, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 07:02:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8362207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamiltrashed/pseuds/hamiltrashed
Summary: Hamilton doesn't call for phone sex, but there's phone sex anyway. Thomas doesn't understand, but far be it from him to say no to this.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [founders](https://archiveofourown.org/users/founders/gifts).



> @founders, bruh this is nowhere near as epic as that fic you gifted to me way back when but here u go anyway!!!
> 
>  
> 
> _baby, we both know_  
>  _that the nights were mainly made_  
>  _for saying things that you can’t say tomorrow day_  
>  **\- Arctic Monkeys**

_Someone’s died_ , is the first thought in Thomas’s mind when his phone starts vibrating at 3am, hard enough to crack the wood of his bedside table. Someone must have died, because outside of exigent circumstances involving such an occurrence, nobody would _dare_ call him at three o’clock in the goddamn morning unless _they_ wanted to be dead. Operating under the knowledge that his friends are aware of this policy, his hand gropes blindly, urgently for the phone, instinct guiding his thumb across the screen to answer it, and he fumbles it to his ear.

“Is everyone okay?” he blurts out by way of hello. His mouth feels dry, his head foggy.

“I’m great,” a voice slurs. “How’re you?”

“Huh?” Thomas says stupidly, and for a moment, he can’t figure out exactly who it is, preparing to hang up and loudly curse wrong numbers before going back to sleep.

“Greaaaaat,” the voice repeats. “How you doin’, Teej?”

And there’s nobody who calls him that (because everyone knows it pisses him off)... nobody, except for…

“Hamilton,” Jefferson says, and he means to say it vicious, mean, angry, but it comes out like a sigh instead.  
  
“I know who I am,” says Alex thickly, and Thomas is surprised that he does given the state he sounds as though he’s in.

“Fantastic,” Thomas mutters. “Do you, in your infinite wisdom, also know what time it is?”

“Yeah, but nobody else’d answer.”

Thomas tries to put as much of the agitation as he feels into his reply. “That’s because nobody wants to talk to you, Alexander, and especially not at this hour.”

“Rude.” There’s a soft rustling sound, presumably as Hamilton rolls over in his bed, perhaps to kick his feet back and forth like a 13 year old girl at a sleepover.

“I’m going to hang up on you now,” Thomas declares, thinking privately that he’s already put up with a solid 60 seconds of Hamilton, and that’s enough for one day.

“Wait! Not yet, just… can’t sleep.”

“Well, I guess it’s shit being you then but I _can_ sleep and in fact, I was sleeping very nicely until you interrupted, so goodbye.”

It’s a long second before Thomas realises he hasn’t hung up yet, before he realises that he’s made no move to. Curiosity has gotten the better of his subconscious mind, and rolling his eyes, he gives up on sleep for the moment and gives in to Alex.

“Fine,” he grumbles. “What did you want to talk about?”

“Dunno,” Hamilton says absently. Thomas is about to tell him off, and then Alex begins to babble about his latest idea. He thinks the booze must have gotten to Hamilton, though, because Thomas can’t follow his train of thought and it all makes even less sense than it usually does. At the very least, Alex will bore him back to sleep.

Thomas zones out, listens to the soft slur, the quiet _shhh_ sound of crisp cotton sheets sliding along skin, the moans…

The moans?

Thomas is suddenly alert again, listening hard for what he thought he just heard: the break in Hamilton’s voice, the trembling little moan as though…

“Alexander,” Thomas says.

“Yeah, what, nothing?” Alex mumbles, clearly unsure as to whether there was a question he was supposed to answer, something to respond to.  
  
“What are you doing?” Thomas asks him, though he’s quite sure he already knows.

“Stuff,” Alex says vaguely, but that’s the only thing that’s vague, because the sound he makes next is certainly less than subtle. Its outright sinful, really, and something about it makes Thomas’s insides feel strange, like there’s a sudden itch somewhere that he can’t scratch.

“You’re not doing what I think you’re doing,” Thomas says, ignoring the way his voice is a little hoarse, the way his tongue suddenly doesn’t seem to fit right in his mouth, the way it’s quite obvious Alex is doing exactly what Thomas thinks he is.

“Don’t be a buzzkill,” Alex whines unhappily. “Just lemme…”

He trails off, makes a soft huffing sound, a quiet ‘mmmph’ that has Thomas clutching the phone a little harder.

“Is this what you called for?” Thomas asks him, and it’s laughably silly that Alex would have called for this, that he was merely looking for someone to do this with, to do this _for_ , as if it could have really been Laurens or Burr or god forbid, Washington that a drunken Alex decided was a good person to initiate phone sex with.

Except this isn’t phone sex. Thomas has not reciprocated or done anything to suggest he is going to do anything but listen. He doesn’t know which is worse.

“No,” Alex says at last, his voice the model of calm control as if this will not be something he will regret in the light of day. And then, as if it’s the most ordinary thing to say in the world, like it’s the most innocent of confessions, he adds, “But your voice does things to me.”

 _What things?_ Thomas would ask if a.) that were not already abundantly clear and b.) he thought Alex would give him a real answer. Instead, he swallows hard and asks, “Do you want me to…?”

He’s not entirely sure what the end of that sentence should be, but Alex fills it in for him. “Keep talking? _Yes_.”

Thomas bites his lip, says nothing for a few long moments, trying to gain some sort of control over his spinning mind. A few minutes ago, he had been annoyed (though perhaps not as much as he ought to have been) at Hamilton’s 3am call, and had entertained brief thoughts of throttling him at work on Monday, as one often considers doing to one’s enemies. And yet, now he has to force himself to reckon with the thing way deep down inside of him that has always admired Alexander, that has always thought him respectable adversary, that has always known him as both enemy and… friend? Maybe not a friend. But definitely someone Thomas would feel the absence of if he were gone.

“ _Thomas_ ,” Alex says, voice tight, reminding him that he just offered to keep talking primarily for the benefit of Alex getting off. He feels his face heat up.

“Yeah,” Thomas mutters, coming back to the moment. “Yeah, okay.”

He doesn’t know what he should say at first, doesn’t know if he’s any good at dirty talk or if that’s what Alex wants to hear. Thomas feels sure he could lie to Alex that he was going to support all his future bills and he’d come on the spot, but he decides against that lest Alex remember it and try to hold him to it.

Thomas closes his eyes, ignores the taut, tense feeling growing in his stomach, ignores the way he has embarrassingly started to tent the duvet. It would be dishonest, even to himself, to pretend he’s never thought of Hamilton this way, to pretend that he can’t imagine what he looks like right now, stretched across the bed with spread legs and his hands on his own body.

“Bet you look so good right now,” he whispers, and the words sound like some pre-written dialogue coming from his mouth, awkward and cheesy, despite the fact that he is one hundred percent sure Hamilton looks good right now.

Alex doesn’t seem to care, just hums his agreement in a way that for once, doesn’t seem the least bit arrogant. Then he makes a noise low in his throat and says, far too nonchalantly, “The head of my dick is so fuckin’ _wet_.”

Thomas almost chokes on his tongue, the hand that isn’t holding the phone clenching at the sheets to stop himself from touching, from making this into even more of a thing than it already is. He can’t control the way his breathing hitches up in his throat so that it almost stops, and it’s a moment before he can make his mouth work again to speak.

“Be even wetter if you were down my throat right now,” Thomas says, and this time, the words come out in a heavy, insistent tone he doesn’t altogether recognise, it’s been so long since he last had cause to use it.

Alex makes a sound that is halfway between a gasp and a laugh, and slurs back, “Yeah, ‘cause you’d really suck me off.”

“I would,” Thomas says, and right then, he knows it’s true. Knows that he doesn’t go to his knees often but he would for Hamilton. “I’d let you come all over my mouth, too.”

Alex gives a shuddering moan, and Thomas’s eyes are shut so tight he’s seeing stars. Stars and Hamilton, too, a vision of him pouring itself little by little into his mind like sand through an hourglass. He imagines Alex’s hair, sticking along his sweaty forehead, head tipped back against his pillows, neck bared. His phone is on speaker, Thomas can tell, and maybe it’s on the pillow next to him, leaving his hands free. One hand is of course between his legs, but maybe the other is roaming along his stomach, or pinching his nipples. His feet, perhaps, are digging into the bed, his thighs angled open and trembling, all pretty golden brown skin that Jefferson would like to dig his nails into and kiss and lick and bite at with needful hands and hungry mouth until Hamilton would quiver with remembered pleasure at every aching press of his thighs against one another.

“You’d fuck me, wouldn’t you?” Alex asks, and Thomas’s hand is on his cock before he even knows he’s put it there. He thrusts into his fist, chasing friction, and nods before he remembers Hamilton can’t see him.

“Fuck you right into the mattress,” Thomas promises, “face first and unforgiving until all you can do is rub yourself off against the sheets and beg me for more.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Hamilton whines, and Thomas has no idea where these words are coming from, only knows that he wants this in a way he hasn’t wanted anything for quite some time, with such a stupidly fierce yearning that he’s barely had his dick in his hand for a minute and he’s already far too close to the edge.

He imagines Hamilton’s spine bowing into an arch, every inch of him aching for Thomas’s touch, for his tongue, for the filthy mouth Thomas has suddenly remembered he possesses.

“Gonna fuck you so good, the whole city’ll know my name,” he says.

Thomas doesn’t realise he’s moved this from hypothetical to reality until Alex repeats, in an unsteady voice, “Gonna?”

Thomas pauses, hand still moving unceasingly on himself even though his breathing is harsh and tense in his uncertainty that he should have said what he did. And then the moment passes, his cock throbs in his grip, and he answers definitively, “Yeah. Gonna.”

“Wish you were right now,” Alex admits. “Vibrator isn’t cutting it.”

“Vibrator?” Thomas says weakly, and yes, now that he’s listening for it, he can hear just the faintest buzz below Alex’s heavy, desperate breathing. He doesn’t know if it’s been inside Alex all along, or if he decided somewhere in the middle of this conversation to do it. And it’s that thought that makes a searingly hot wave of desire flood Thomas’s veins, the thought that Alex is practised enough, _open_ enough, to slip a fucking vibrator inside himself without ever alerting Thomas to it.

“Mm, yeah,” Alex says, and his voice is lazy now. “Feels good but I wanna get _fucked_.” The last word comes out hard, the ‘k’ sound dagger sharp, and Thomas finds it hard not to whimper when he considers how it sounds a little bit like begging. God, the thought of Hamilton _begging_ for his cock…

“Jesus,” Thomas whispers, and he feels a little bit dizzy. “Gonna make you feel me in every inch of you, Alexander. Gonna make it so you can’t ever think about anything else. Gonna make it so you’re begging me to fuck you everywhere, every minute of the day --”

There’s nothing else he needs to say. Alex rambles out half a dozen cuss words and tells Thomas he’s gonna come. And his moans are all it takes for Thomas to come too, wrenching his pillow out from under his head to press it over his mouth, suddenly desperate for Alex not to know exactly how much this just got to him, exactly how easy it was for him to get off with this perfect image of him in his mind, how embarrassing it is that it took so little time.

He regains control of his breathing before Alex does, takes the pillow away from his face when he’s confident he sounds less like he just ran ten miles. Alex takes it slower, heaving through each ragged breath until they return to normal.

Alex laughs nervously and mutters a quiet, “Uh, thanks, Teej.” He still sounds drunk, but there’s an edge of clarity to his tone now.

Thomas doesn’t correct the nickname, even though he should. “Yeah,” he replies. “Yeah, you’re welcome.”

“Did you…?” Alex asks after a moment’s pause.

“No,” Thomas lies quickly, because without the immediate need for sex fogging up his brain, he suddenly feels like maybe he should quit while he’s ahead.

And yet, Alex doesn’t seem to feel the same. If he knows it’s a lie, he doesn’t say so, instead settling for, “Oh. Okay. Well. Next time, then?”

It’s a question. Or a statement. Thomas doesn’t really know. He doesn’t know if they’ll talk about this tomorrow or pretend it never happened or if ‘next time’ is just a fantasy. He doesn’t know anything now.  
  
“Yeah,” he says anyway, with maybe just a little hope. “Next time.” And then, before Alex can hang up, Thomas adds quietly, “Next time, call before 3am.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title and lyrics at the beginning from "Do I Wanna Know?" by Arctic Monkeys.


End file.
